


these lies we speak

by distantfridays



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Disabled Character, Heterosexuality was never an option, Homosexuality, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-11
Updated: 2011-07-10
Packaged: 2017-10-21 06:14:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantfridays/pseuds/distantfridays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s one person that Charles will go to Hell for, and that person is Erik. Unfortunately, by the time Erik will ever need his help, he’s already there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. if only you knew

The mansion is cold, empty. The rooms, all the doors open and windows uncovered, are hollow.

There’s no one here but him, and the near-silent hum of Cerebro five stories underground from where he sits. It’s late March, a light dusting of frost coloring the expansive lawns silver-blue. His jacket is nowhere near enough to keep him warm, but he’s lost the will to wheel himself down to the closet to fetch another.

It’s impressive, really, how silent the place is after he’s sent them all away. No errant thoughts to shove through his fragile mental barriers, no secrets accidentally broadcast to him. The silence is complete, and he can finally relax.

But he still can’t sleep.

The silence brings numbness, similar to the not-there feeling of his legs, but not peace. No, Charles lost all hope of achieving peace on a beach littered with metal fragments.

Which was why he’d sent them away. They couldn’t know that he had given up, else he would infect them. They _had_ to have hope, because it was all they had left. So he’d sent them to fetch a few errant mutants in New York, where it was safer. He, of course, had decided to remain. They didn’t question him, not even in their thoughts.

Hank might have, but Hank was always careful with his thoughts around Charles.

All too soon, the silence is crushingly agonizing. But, for the first night in nearly a year, he can make it through the night without a migraine or headache. With no thoughts to block out, he doesn’t have to hold back his power.

His “gift”.

 

The second night, his restraint breaks like too-cold rubber, snapping and cracking and he destroys a room with his mere _thoughts_ before he can contain himself. It’s a good thing the children are gone. It’s too dangerous for them to be here.

He’s too dangerous.

He still can’t sleep. His bed is too cold, too large, and too empty. Just levering himself up into it is taxing, and unrewarding. He remains in his chair for as long as possible.

 

The third night, he falls from his chair trying to pull himself onto the couch in his study. It wheels away, out of reach, and he is trapped by his own body under the coffee table.

He’d kept track of the days by the dishes that gathered in the kitchen’s impressively large sink. He couldn’t really reach to wash them himself, and housekeeping wasn’t due for another few days. But, collapsed under the coffee table, he can’t tell how long it’s been.

The children should have been back by now. They were only going into the city to pick up three mutants. It shouldn’t have taken two days, let alone however long it’s been.

But they haven’t returned, so Charles has no choice but to attempt to shift into a more comfortable position.

He doesn’t even get very hungry.

 

After what he surmises to be two days since his fall later, there are footsteps downstairs.

Funny, because he hadn’t sensed anyone nearby. Or any _thing_ , because he’s lately been feeling flashes of simple intelligence that can only be birds or some other animal.  
He writes it off as a delusion and focuses on moving the book on top of the coffee table a few inches to the left.

He’s started to control it; his whiplash power, his ability to move objects with his mind. It’s harder than he’d ever assumed it would be; the effort it takes to move just the book (when destroying the room had been easy) is exhausting.

The footsteps fade, and maybe they were never really there to begin with.

 

It’s an hour and a half before he’s finally able to move the book. He has to will it to move with every fiber of his gift, focused from an ocean of power to a needlepoint. Precise.

Controlled.

It’s so much easier to destroy, though, and in a moment the book is ripped to pieces with an errant thought.

The quiet ripping sounds accompany his tears of frustration rather nicely.

This time, he can feel something- some _one_ \- moving downstairs. Not because he can sense their mind (he’s starting to get a faint idea of who it is, based on the dead space), but because he can sense the displaced area around them.

He can sense the way their breath stirs the air, the way their feet press against the floor. They’re searching every room, meticulous and thorough.

There’s only one person Charles has known to be so ridiculously thorough and patient.

“Erik.”

It’s more of an observation than a cry for help, and the footsteps (he can tell they’re real, now) still in the drawing room.

“Erik?”

Louder, and then the steps are hurrying up the stairs and the door of the study- he can feel it creak on its hinges against the abuse- slams open.

“Charles?”

 _Erik._ He sends the though ricocheting at the man standing in the doorway, twisting under the table in an attempt to move. He doesn’t get far- his legs are too much of a deadweight, and he’s not strong enough to move them- but Erik rounds the couch and kneels beside him.

The first thing he notices is the ridiculous helmet. It’s red-purple now, as conspicuous as ever. It shadows Erik’s face, covering his hair and obscuring his eyes.

The second thing he notices is the twist of Erik’s lips, the pain in his shaded eyes as he pulls him from under the coffee table and into his arms.

 _why are you here how did you find me why how where are the children-_

But Erik can’t hear him, and he slowly calms enough to vocalize his inquiries. “Where are the children?” His voice is hoarse, barely recognizable.

“New York. Miss Frost found Hank looking for the same mutant she was. He told her they’d left you.” Told? More like ripped it from his mind.

But Charles said nothing.

“She told me.”

 _why are you here why are you here-_

“So you came? Why?” The question was much flatter, more hostile, than he’d intended. Erik’s lips thinned, a sign of (anger?) some displeasure.

“I didn’t know you were…” Erik straightened, lifting him in the process, and the wheelchair rolled towards them. “No one told me…”

So Miss Frost had either seen and chose not to divulge his current state, or had not seen at all. _Interesting._

Erik settled him into his chair, hands smoothing over his deadened thighs with something akin to sorrow. Charles followed the motion with his eyes, and then leaned back into the solidness of the chair.

“I didn’t think it would matter to you, my friend.” He’d thought that Erik had known, actually. He wasn’t hiding his weakness the way that Erik hid behind his helmet.

“You didn’t- _Charles_.” Erik’s anger is refreshing, so much more potent and cold than Charles’s own. _Intoxicating_ , really. But everything about Erik is intoxicating to Charles.

And then Erik’s tossing the absurd helmet to the ground, his mind reaching, _reaching_ -

 

Hours later, after tears and accusations and eventual dubious forgiveness, there is peace. It won’t last, fleeting as it is, but Charles glories in it.

Erik has him sprawled across the bed, naked down to his waist. His head is pillowed on Erik’s hard-muscled thigh, Erik’s calloused fingers caressing through his hair. The room he’d destroyed had been righted ( _saw the destroyed room, thought that you were gone, thought that you were_ dead _)_ , his chair parked regally at the door.

Erik’s helmet is on the seat.

The peace won’t last; Erik will leave in the morning and the children will return in the afternoon, wild with tales of Erik’s mutant army.

But, while it does, Charles sleeps.


	2. just one more chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day is mild, for mid-summer, and somehow Erik is there.

It’s been a year to the day he last saw Erik – when Erik had found him crumpled under the coffee table, alone and very much unable to move, to rescue himself – and no one is the wiser to his visit. It hadn’t been easy, hiding it from the children. But he’d _had_ to, otherwise they’d never leave him again.

The children – nearly all of them, save for Hank, who is fiddling about in his laboratory – are playing outside, scattered across the lawn and frolicking in the newly-installed swimming pool. There are scores more of them now, all under the careful watch of Alex and Sean and himself.

Only the youngest ones, Piotr, Bobby, Jean-Paul, and Ororo need watching. Jean and Scott are more than capable of looking after themselves (Scott so fiercely independent from Alex and Jean so terribly gifted), but they stayed close.

They couldn’t be too careful.

Charles himself is laid out in the grass, propped up by a few pillows Alex had brought from the mansion for him. He’s got a small pile of books by his side to occupy himself with; texts on rudimentary physics and literature and a book of German poetry that he’d found nearly a year ago, abandoned on the kitchen table. He can’t read German, but he’s got a translation dictionary to help him struggle along.

The warmth of the summer sun has Charles sleepy and lazy, relaxed as he idly flickers through the less-protected surface thoughts of his students (just skimming the surface, so they know he’s there but not digging in, barely brushing them).

 _Jean thinks Scott is a bully, pushing Alex into the pool while he wasn’t paying attention. Ororo is falling asleep in her lawn chair, dreaming of wild storms, all under her control. Sean is with Piotr and Jean-Paul, trying to teach them algebra and mostly failing._

All is well, for now.

 

Lessons will resume in two days, after the July 4th holiday. And then the neverending search for more mutants – more _students_ \- begins anew.

He’d hesitated in sending out searchers after Erik’s visit. Erik hadn’t hurt him - _would never hurt him, would rather die than hurt him again_ \- but he wouldn’t hesitate to hurt his students if they got in his way. He didn’t like putting them in danger.

But inaction was nearly as dangerous, and the older students needed, _longed_ , for something to do besides learn. They wanted to help, wanted some adventure that wasn’t school.

He couldn’t deny them if they volunteered to go.

So he uses Cerebro, having Hank record locations and data, ready for when the children are prepared to go out.

 

But, for now, Charles relaxes into the cushions under him, savoring the light breeze. He didn’t usually come outside, not with all of the paperwork and papers to grade and classes to organize, but the mild summer day was a temptation not to be denied.

Lunch had been a pleasant affair, crowded around the pool tables with sandwiches and cola, and then chocolate cake that had been made by Alex and was shockingly delicious. Not that Alex would ever admit to any skill whatsoever in the kitchen.

And then, swimming.

It had been difficult, learning to swim without the use of his legs, but he’d managed. He could outpace Sean if he put his mind to it; swimming seemed to be middle ground between walking and not being able to move at all.

And, now, with a book of halfway-translated poetry, he was hoping to get a tan to color his pale skin.

 _\- take them out for ice cream?_ Alex’s half-completed thought pushed at his mind, and he jerked up to look at the boy (who wasn’t really a boy anymore, not with all the pressure and responsibility on his shoulders). _Just out for a little while. Nothing will happen._

“You’re soaking wet.” Charles tried to layer in disapproval, but couldn’t summon anything but resigned amusement.

“I’ll dry. C’mon, Professor, it’s just for ice cream. We haven’t even been in town for a _week_.” Alex was sitting at his side, hair dripping. “Besides, Sean met this girl in town and he’s _lovestruck_ , and he won’t focus until he sees her again. It’s _disgusting_.”

Charles has sensed Sean’s wandering focus, but hadn’t identified its source. Now, he knew.  
He couldn’t hide them forever.

“Go ahead. Tell Hank you’re going so he can give you the keys to the car.” He feels Alex’s excitement explode, and sighs in defeat.

“Thanks, Professor! We’ll be back by nine, promise!” He speeds off to gather the children, shouting to Sean where he’s crouched with Piotr and Jean-Paul in the shade.

They’re inside and dressed within ten minutes, and out the door within twenty.

He really does contain them far too much.

 

An hour after they’re gone – all except Hank, who is in the lab _still_ \- Charles decides to go for a swim. He hauls himself into his wheelchair, snarling at the deadweight of his legs.

He can’t help his frustration with his handicap any more than Hank can help his frustration with his claws. It’s part of them.  
But he doesn’t have to like it.

The wheels of his chair have no difficulty with grass or carpet (modifications courtesy of Hank) and he’s out of his loose trousers and into the pool within a few moments.

For a moment, he lets himself float in the calm, cool water. The summer sky is ridiculously blue above him, clear of clouds and the smog from the inner city. Peaceful, almost tranquil.  
And then he’s diving underwater, arms powering through the water until he reaches the bottom.

The water impedes everything but his gift, and he focuses on not hitting the walls of the pool rather than minding the thoughts around him.

 _Splash._

 

Strong, iron-strong and inescapable wrap around his waist, tugging him to the surface with ridiculous ease.

Charles struggles instinctively, lashing out with his mind and arms against the constraints.

 _let go of me -_

Worry, hot and tight with urgency, lashes through his mind, along with a shocking familiarity.

 _drowning can’t swim can’t let him die no one is around -_

Erik.

They break the surface, Charles sputtering for air. Erik drags him to the edge of the pool, breath harsh against the back of his neck. _breathe Charles got you won’t let you drown._  
“Erik.” Charles sags into his hold, shaking with laughter and anxiety and something akin to shock. Erik had thought he was drowning. Erik had been watching.

Erik had tried to _save_ him.

 _are you alright?_ Erik’s mind is open, unshielded by his helmet.

Charles is finding it difficult to breathe, but not for the reasons Erik’s mind is so wildly concerned with.

“I’m fine.” _i **can** swim, you know._ Erik still hasn’t let him go, pinning him between his chest and the wall of the pool, arms around his waist and hands holding tight to him.

Slowly, Erik’s tense mind calms (as much as Erik’s mind can possibly relax), and Erik slumps against him. _didn’t know sorry will leave have to leave_.

Charles, though, doesn’t want Erik to leave.

 

“Why on _Earth_ are you here?” Erik has hauled him out of the pool, and they’re both sitting (well, Charles is more leaning on Erik than he is sitting) at the edge of it. Erik has one of Charles’s hands captured in two of his, fingers stroking absently over his knuckles.

“Miss Frost sensed a great deal of your children leaving.” Erik paused, bringing his hand up to press the back of it to his lips. _worried._

“To get _ice cream_. Honestly, Erik. You can’t…” _you can’t come here you know this if you’re found…_

“I know.”

And then Erik is kissing him, pulling him up and in.

 

Charles isn’t really sure how they’ve gotten here. They’d been friends, and yes, and Erik is beautiful and dark and everything that Charles needs, but they’re _enemies_.

Enemies aren’t supposed to fall in love.

But Erik is relentless, and Charles can only melt into his grip, a low groan choking from their clashing lips. It’s glorious, kissing Erik; like rain on bare skin when you’re supposed to be inside, warm sunshine on sweat-soaked skin, and some choking emotion that they’re both trying so desperately to ignore. Not so much a release as a _discovery_ , a new facet to the things they can do to (ways they can hurt) one another.

He doesn’t know which of them utters it, a rough, guttural _“Please.”_ , but he’s all of a sudden sprawled over Erik’s chest, useless legs draped over tight muscle as Erik bites and kisses his shoulders and neck. Charles’s own hands are fumbling with Erik’s shirt, tearing more than a few buttons from it as he removes it.

 _want lust so much heat and desire let me touch you love you love you so much._ Erik’s pushing his thoughts at him, pulling him into him as Erik efficiently removes the rest of their clothing. _with me, Charles._ Erik’s pushing at his boundaries, needling at him until his mind strikes back, and when it does, they’re both lost with it.

 _like this?_ Erik’s mouth is at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, teeth and tongue ravaging his skin, and it’s all Charles can do to moan in appreciation and hold on to him.

Erik’s hips jerk against him, hardness against hardness, and they both hiss.

 _yes yes **yes** Erik want you-_

He’s squirming violently in Erik’s grip, Erik rutting up against him while he presses down, and it’s all over entirely too quickly.

He comes first, a whine high on his lips that breaks into a moan, and Erik follows a desperate moment later. It’s sticky, disgustingly sweaty, and ridiculously hasty.

It’s possibly the best sex Charles has ever had in his entire sexual history.

And that’s saying something, because there was a really flexible girl from Paris he’d once met, but that wasn’t the point because Erik is laughing; low, sweet chuckles escaping his kiss-bruised lips as he runs his hands (skirting around the single scar on Charles’s body) up and down his back, and his flanks.

 _hardly the best, i think, Charles._ They’re, quite literally, a hot mess. And Charles doesn’t know where his swimming trunks went, because Erik had tossed them somewhere.

The children would be returning soon, and Hank couldn’t stay in his lab forever.

But, for now, they can lay tangled in the grass and ignore everything else.

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm rubbish at writing sex. And angst. Ah, well. Unbeta'd.


End file.
